


oh my god they were plague-mates

by wombatpop



Series: ...and they were roommates! [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bickering, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Jaskier is confused, Lock Down Fest, M/M, Plague, Quarantine, Unresolved Sexual Tension, geralt has a teenage crush, kinda domestic, omg there's only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23170978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombatpop/pseuds/wombatpop
Summary: “They’ve closed the streets, Geralt. We’re stuck in here.”-Jaskier and Geralt stuck in an inn together. What could go wrong?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: ...and they were roommates! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688893
Comments: 32
Kudos: 409
Collections: Lock Down Fest





	oh my god they were plague-mates

**Author's Note:**

> many many thanks to my wonderful beta [splashattack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splashattack/pseuds/Splashattack)
> 
> i know there are a couple of other fics in the lock down collection with a similar premise. if you'd like to check them out please do so [here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Quarantine_Fest/tags/Wied%C5%BAmin%20%7C%20The%20Witcher%20-%20All%20Media%20Types/works)!
> 
> i'm thinking of continuing this storyline, so please leave a comment if you like it!

It had been many years since he had last visited this area, but as Geralt enters the town, he finds it just as crowded and filthy as he remembers, grey slush painting the roads. It’s autumn, and the first light snow has begun to fall. With rumours of a sickness spreading from the east, the market square is increasingly frantic. Even the smallest vegetables, the toughest cuts of meat disappear by early morning. The herb-grower’s stall is the busiest, his voice amidst the crowd calling out the benefits of his fair.

Far from the frenzy of the market square, other parts of the town are barren, the ghosts of the absent hanging in the air, present in the untrodden snow. 

Even still, that evening the inn is far from empty. It’s a humble wooden tavern, the bar stretching along one wall with a large fireplace opposite. Geralt sits heavily on a stool, easily ignoring the rest of the room, and gruffly requests an ale. He brings the cup to his lips, grateful for the slightest respite in such an atmosphere of hysteria, human idiocy a common irritant. 

Out of Geralt’s rare, quiet moment comes a familiar voice.

“Geralt!” 

Geralt shuts his eyes for a moment and scowls, hearing excited footsteps approach him. “The Witcher himself! I was just singing about you. What are you doing here?”

Geralt turns to see the beaming face of Jaskier, far too close for his liking.

“I’m just passing through.” He turns back to his beer in the futile effort to dissuade Jaskier from continuing to talk. As expected, it doesn’t work.

“Me too! I’m on tour, you know, with my hit songs. About you. And other topics.” Jaskier’s eyes wander from Geralt’s as his sentence rushes to a close, abruptly changing the topic. “Have you heard about this plague?”

“What plague?” Geralt’s eyes stay planted on his ale, sarcasm easily missed in his unchanging expression.

“From the east, surely you’ve heard of it?” Jaskier’s disbelief melts into irritated realisation at Geralt’s feigned ignorance. “It’s spreading, they say.”

“It’s nothing. Humans do this every few years.” Geralt downs the rest of his ale, and nods for another one.

“Well, as a human, I’m not as sure as you in our inevitable resilience.” Jaskier huffs, a tiny wobble in his voice betraying the intensity of his fear. Geralt stays silent, and Jaskier leaves him be, an action which concerns Geralt more than anything he could have said. 

Jaskier begins to sing to the crowd in an effort to evade the sense of dread that creeps up the back of his throat whenever he stills his feet. In between ballads, the patrons of the pub speak in hushed tones of an illness with little care for who it consumes. 

“They’ve shut towns over it.” One man insists, his words slurred, tongue loosened by ale and close to useless. “Just ten miles from here.”

“Nothing will save us if it reaches our doors. The Gods have forsaken us.” Another insists, throwing sharp alcoholic air over his companions. 

“A happy one, then. For our sorrows.” Jaskier shouts over the man as he continues to speak, his singing devolving into yelling over pessimistic drunks. 

Geralt watches from the shadows, but Jaskier’s eyes seem to skip over him for the remainder of the night. The purple jacket Jaskier wears must be new, intricate beading reflecting the flickering orange of the firelight. Undoubtedly bought for him by a rich and adoring beau.

It isn’t long before Geralt withdraws to his chamber, convinced Jaskier is determined to give him the cold shoulder. Jaskier allows himself one lingering look when Geralt’s back is turned before returning his attention back to his admittedly rather inattentive audience.

It’s the witching hours before Jaskier finally retires, propped against the wall of the tavern, the fire slowly dying as he sleeps, holding his lute as if it were his only love. 

-

Jaskier wakes to a commotion, hardly past dawn. 

“I won’t close. I can’t!” The innkeeper insists. He’s gesturing with his hands, eyes wide in indignation. The guard has one hand on the hilt of his sword, waiting for the innkeeper to take another step towards him.

“It is not necessary for you to close. You must not take in any more guests. And all of your current guests must stay.” The guard’s voice is muffled slightly by the helmet that covers him. His tone seems far too apathetic for what he is asking, in the innkeeper’s opinion.

“For how long?” 

“As long as it takes for the disease to pass.” The guard leans back and assumes a posture that indicates the conversation has ended. The innkeeper glares, but seems to accept, returning to his bar to bitterly mutter his complaints to himself.

Jaskier, silent and still during this conversation, takes this as his cue to rush upstairs to Geralt’s chamber and knock loudly and desperately at his door.

Geralt wakes to Jaskier’s pleading calls, so persistent that he has to haphazardly pull on his trousers and lurch to the door. 

“It happened,” Jaskier announces as soon as Geralt cracks his door open, only one eye open.

“What?” Through his blurry morning haze Geralt can see Jaskier’s panicked expression, still only able to muster a single syllable.

“The plague!” Geralt doesn’t respond to Jaskier’s statement, even though his tone is as dramatic as he can make it. “They’ve closed the streets, Geralt. We’re stuck in here.”

That does get Geralt’s attention. He opens his eyes properly now, blundering out the door without so much as a shirt.

He almost reaches the inn door before he’s stopped by the guard, an open palm pushing against his bare chest.

“You can’t go outside. King’s orders. Quarantine, they call it.”

Geralt stares down the faceless man, who gives nothing. “I’m not going to make anyone sick. I just need to leave town.”

The soldier either doesn’t understand the implication of a Witcher’s differing physiology, or refuses to. 

“It’s orders, sir. Return to your room.”

Geralt looks to Jaskier, who stands with an expression so worried the first description that comes to mind is ‘pathetic’, and then back to the guard.

“Let me leave.” He’s the closest a Witcher can look to pleading. 

“If you attempt to leave, you will be killed,” the guard states, mustering as much intimidation as he can when facing a man with a foot of height on him.

Geralt weighs his options. On the one hand, murdering a town full of guards is not the task the guard seems to believe it is. But with all the towns in the vicinity likely closed, his next job is probably cancelled, or at least postponed. 

Finally, he grunts an embittered defeat and begins to stomp back to his room, Jaskier trailing behind. 

In truth, Geralt’s irritation is less at being trapped inside, though the drive within him that propels him onward will undoubtedly see him restless. It’s not even really at Jaskier. He hasn’t seen Jaskier in months, and still, every time they part he can’t rid him from his brain. Constantly, he thinks of witty remarks Jaskier might say, stupid decisions he might make, that infuriating smile that makes Geralt’s stomach flip. But he’s heard enough of Jaskier’s songs to know that kind of nausea points to something he’s not prepared to confront.

That’s why being with Jaskier, all the time, is a bad idea. 

When he reaches his door, Geralt turns, taking up the doorway with his massive form, and Jaskier pulls back abruptly.

“What are you doing?” Geralt growls. Jaskier frowns.

“I’m not staying down there, with the rabble! Who knows where they’ve been!” Geralt grumbles pointed obscenities and goes to shut the door, but Jaskier moves swiftly to block him.

“There aren’t any other rooms Geralt!” Geralt takes a step back, attempting to move away from Jaskier’s face all up in his face, and Jaskier takes the opportunity to slide into the room and rush to the opposing wall. Inside the room, there is only a bed, table and singular chair, all huddled in together.

“You won’t get me sick, and therefore, I refuse to leave this room until quarantine ends.” Jaskier plants his feet and crosses his arms, chin up like a stubborn child.

Geralt sighs again. He always sighs, with Jaskier.

“If you think I’m spending God knows how long locked in a room with you-” Geralt’s anger makes little impression on Jaskier, so used to being subject to it.

“It’s not locked! You can leave whenever you want!” Jaskier teases. Geralt scowls.

“I’m not leaving!”

“Then it’s decided. We’re plague-mates.” Smugly, Jaskier smiles at Geralt, who glowers. Being with Jaskier, alone, for days on end, is a terrible prospect, but he can see it will be near impossible to win this argument. 

Geralt slams the door. Throwing a dark look towards Jaskier, still smug, he walks to the bed and climbs in.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asks, his smug smile fading quickly.

“Going back to bed.” Geralt pulls the covers over himself, his back to Jaskier.

Jaskier frowns, irked at Geralt’s refusal to give him the attention he deserves, and has an idea. 

“Good thinking.” 

Jaskier climbs into the other side of the bed, pulling on the covers. Geralt is startled, but both are too stubborn to show discomfort, as much as they both feel it.

Within a couple of minutes, Jaskier’s determination to pretend to be asleep melts into genuine exhaustion, and he begins to snore. Geralt is still fuming, irritation at the whole situation boiling over and over in his brain. 

-

When Jaskier finally wakes, the mid-afternoon sun streams through the lone window of their small room. He stretches, and remembers too late that he is sharing his bed, limbs pushing to the corners of the mattress. Luckily, his companion has left his side, instead sitting hunched over the table that occupies the far corner of the room.

“Good morning.” Geralt indicates no response to Jaskier’s words, his attention fully focused on his task, whatever it is.

Jaskier rises, adjusting his shirt and trousers, and approaches Geralt, slowly and carefully as if he were a wild animal, not that Jaskier usually approaches anything too carefully. Though he avoided Geralt the previous evening out of sensitivity to Geralt’s dismissal of the fear he still swims in, their isolation leads him towards diplomacy.

“What are you up to?” As Jaskier gets closer, he can see the glint of a blade under Geralt’s fingers, so he stops. Geralt turns slightly, only enough to shoot Jaskier a glare, and resumes. He’s polishing his swords, cleaning them of recent debris, something he does fairly regularly in order to keep them in good condition. Slowly, in a repetitive movement smoothed by heavy practice, he runs a stone along the length of the blade. Jaskier had seen that stone before. An odd shape and texture, he had never seen Geralt use it, until now. But the intrigue is dampened by Geralt’s radiating hostility.

Geralt seems to Jaskier to be making a point to be mad at him, unnecessarily so. His heart had leapt to see Geralt again, but his usual anxiety at the possibility of Geralt noticing his disproportionate excitement is overtaken by his fear that perhaps Geralt’s irritation has something more to it than the usual bickering. He usually replies to him, at least, even if only to admonish him. 

Jaskier is mad right back, throwing himself into songwriting. He can’t do the silent treatment as well as Geralt can, or very well at all, but his intermittent remarks seem enough to keep Geralt as aggravated as Jaskier. 

In the evening, the innkeeper delivers two small meals, complete with two ales. 

Opening the door, Jaskier exclaims, “Ale, that’s nice!” just before Geralt snatches the both of them off the floor, ignoring the food.

“You know, you can’t live on ale,” Jaskier huffs, collecting the plates of food that Geralt abandoned and setting one down on the table. Geralt scowls into his coveted ale.

“You’ve had a face like a cat’s bottom all day!” Jaskier’s disappointment seems to cut through to Geralt, who speaks for the first time since their collective nap.

“Perhaps that is because I am trapped with the most annoying creature ever to exist.” He sounds tired more than angry, offering a predictable insult. 

“That is simply untrue. Name one-” Jaskier stops mid-sentence, seeming to realise the mistake in his challenge. “Nevermind.” 

-

The first night Jaskier and Geralt spend in quarantine together, Jaskier sleeps on the floor, in a position not unlike the one he took downstairs the previous night. It’s freezing, and Jaskier spends most of the night trying to curl tighter and tighter in on himself. With his back against the wall, his head lolls awkwardly as he sleeps, and he wakes with the worst crick in his neck he has ever experienced. 

“Fuuck.” He draws out his complaint, a long and loud exclamation. Geralt looks from his position, happy in his own bed.

“My neck hurts,” Jaskier elaborates. Geralt grunts, which is still an improvement on yesterday.

Jaskier rises and stretches, each movement accompanied by a dramatic yawn. Glaring, Geralt moves from the bed to the table, rolling out a short scroll.

As he does, Jaskier retrieves his notes from the previous afternoon, setting them out on the bed in front of him. Picking up his lute, he strums a few strings to test the tune.

At the sound, Geralt snaps his head around, glare turning from resentful to exasperated.

“ _ The streets are empty, in towns large and small _ ," Jaskier sings, the words stilted as he trials various chords. “ _ A plague has come, for one and all _ .”

“Do you have to do that?” Geralt blurts. Jaskier looks unimpressed, and makes no attempt to cease. 

“What are you doing that requires such concentration? Sitting?” Jaskier retorts, hoping that a bit of jovial rudeness will stoke his sense of humour. 

“I’m trying to plan my route out of here.” Geralt runs his fingertip along the dark road markings on his borrowed map. He narrows his eyes as though it requires intense focus, though all his attention lies behind him, with Jaskier. 

“Well, you’re not going anywhere soon,” Jaskier chortles. 

There’s an awkward silence, Geralt’s dissatisfaction hindering Jaskier’s humour. 

“Look, I know you don’t like my singing, but at a time like this, a sweet melody is necessary to lift a heavy spirit, and fill the heart with joy.” Jaskier nods encouragingly at Geralt and begins to sing again, this time with more confidence.

“Jaskier, please!” It’s not a word he often uses, and even Geralt seems surprised at the sincerity of his plea. 

“What else am I supposed to do, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, softly, not meeting his eyes. 

Geralt pauses,eyes still on his map. “Whatever it is, do it quietly.”

Jaskier frowns, tapping his lute with his fingertips as he thinks. “You know, singing is a deeply human, social experience. It feeds the soul. Music, it’s the key to life, the key to happiness, the key to keeping the light in your eyes. It’s love, it’s passion, it’s… everything.”

By the end of his speech, Jaskier seems utterly persuaded of the importance of his point. Geralt remains obviously unconvinced, though part of him admires Jaskier’s fervour.

“And if I don’t do something I’ll be so bored I’ll… sit on your lap,” Jaskier adds, frowning at his own ineloquence. 

Geralt, stunned by the oddness of Jaskier’s threat, concedes to Jaskier singing aloud, on the condition that he do so as quietly and apathetically as possible. 

When lunch is delivered, Geralt and Jaskier are no longer persevering with the silent treatment, but there’s still a palpable tension. Geralt takes both of the ales again.

Jaskier holds a piece of bread as he reclines on the bed, squishing it between his fingers and pulling it into increasingly smaller pieces. His chest is covered in crumbs.

“I have never considered the texture of bread before today.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but can’t help but find Jaskier’s boredom-fuelled fascination just a little bit endearing. Sadly, he has found much of their time in quarantine together a little endearing, if also grating. 

“Do you have a favourite meal?” Geralt shakes his head, suppressing a smile. It’s a question only Jaskier would think to ask a Witcher, without a single thought to its rarity. 

“No.” He is standing, eating his own meal far quicker than his companion. 

“Surely there must be something you’re partial to?” Jaskier finally begins dropping his mangled pieces of bread in his mouth, throwing them up and landing them in his mouth, much to Geralt’s amusement. 

“I am partial to ale,” Geralt says, taking a swig of his second pint. 

“Hear, hear,” Jaskier replies sarcastically, looking pointedly at the first ale, which Geralt inhaled on sight. 

Geralt looks at the empty pint, and the half full one in his hands, and holds it out to Jaskier. 

“Take it.” Jaskier glances between Geralt and his offering, and accepts, with some hesitation. 

“Very considerate, Geralt,” he says, his tone not unlike that he uses when attempting to persuade a fair maiden of his charms. Geralt turns away to set down his empty plate, pushing the thrill of Jaskier’s attention down, down, down, until it’s sitting at the soles of his feet. 

Jaskier no longer believes Geralt’s bad mood is because of a deep-harboured hatred of him. 

When the sun goes down, Jaskier props himself against the wall again, adjusting himself with small, dissatisfied squeaks and sighs.

After thirty seconds of obvious discomfort, Geralt caves, in conflict with his better judgement.

“You can sleep up here if you like,” he states, monotone. It’s hardly a warm invitation, but Jaskier still blushes at the thought of sleeping by Geralt’s side out of something other than spite.

Geralt turns away and tucks himself under the covers, a transparent attempt at conspicuously distancing himself from his bedfellow. Jaskier stands, walking awkwardly to the side of the bed. He hesitates, just long enough for Geralt’s instant regret to sink into the pit of his stomach, before settling into his side of the bed, moving as fast as possible so neither of them can rescind the offer.

-

On the third morning of quarantine, Jaskier wakes before Geralt, something that has never once happened in all of their travels. The sun is just beginning to warm the horizon, a cockerel in the distance welcoming the town to the new day. 

Geralt is frowning, even in his sleep, seemingly never free from the worries that plague him. Jaskier wants nothing more than to reach out and smooth his forehead into tranquility, if he weren’t afraid to lose his hand. Geralt grunts and shifts his weight, and Jaskier turns away in surprise, just in time to avoid being spotted by a freshly awake Geralt.

Jaskier shuts his eyes tight and pretends to be asleep. His expression is constipated, his shoulders are tense, and he’s sure Geralt has some kind of Witcher sense that would tell him if he’s awake anyway. But Geralt doesn’t comment, just leaves the bed hastily. 

Geralt is getting far too familiar with the pattern of thrill-shame-numbness that happens every time he interacts with Jaskier. Waking up beside him…

Geralt needs a wash. 

The jug of water in their room is still almost full, with Jaskier the only only washing properly so far. Geralt splashes his face, and the back of his neck, strands of hair plastering themselves across his cheeks. 

Jaskier takes this as an opportunity to wake up. 

“Good morning!” he announces. Geralt smiles, which definitely comes off as too much. 

The both of them spend the next few hours avoiding each other, the most difficult task in a room four metres wide. Despite their previous travels together, the days spent in quarantine with nothing to distract them from each other seem to concentrate every sensation until it’s almost overwhelming.

“The days seem so long here!” Jaskier finally exclaims. “Is it even midday yet?”

Geralt allows himself to be amused. “Hard to tell.”

He is sitting on the edge of the bed, turning his jacket over in his hands. 

“What are you looking at?” Jaskier asks, abandoning his daydreams for whatever Geralt is doing, giving up on aloofness.

“My sleeve was torn in battle.” Geralt holds his jacket up, showing a long gash on the upper part of the sleeve. 

Jaskier winces as he inspects the damage. “Ouch. Must have hurt, that one?” 

Geralt shrugs. “Not particularly.”

“Wait a moment!” Jaskier suddenly calls, reaching inside his own jacket to pull out a compact, and delicately embroidered, sewing kit. Grinning, he presents it to Geralt, who looks skeptical. 

“It was a gift from a lady friend,” Jaskier insists, pulling out of his frilly pouch a needle and thread. He instructs Geralt to put on the jacket, and begins roughly sewing the gash closed. 

“So you put the needle through the end here, tie a knot…” Jaskier is doing his best impression of a teacher, but Geralt is concentrating less on his sewing lesson and more on his hands on his bicep, his breath occasionally landing on his shoulder. Jaskier’s voice actually has somewhat of a soothing property when he isn’t speaking nonsense. 

“Got it?” It’s Jaskier’s expectant expression that lets Geralt know he’s supposed to answer. 

“Yes.” It turns out to be a good guess. 

“All done.” Geralt looks down to his arm and finds it mended. Not pretty, but functional. He looks back to Jaskier. 

“This is the least irritating thing you’ve done this whole time,” he says. Jaskier tries to be offended, but breaks into a smile nonetheless. 

“I think you’re just grumpy.” It’s Geralt’s turn to smile too, and it’s not weird this time. 

“No, you’re definitely annoying.”

He has missed this, the sound of Jaskier’s laugh as a result of his words, a smile that reaches his eyes. Geralt can feel its effects, the slight relaxation in his shoulders, his jaw, even when they quarrel. It’s taken almost three days of mutual isolation, but the afternoon passes easily.

-

“What do you think is going to happen?” Jaskier whispers through the dark, covers pulled up around his neck.

Geralt, now aware that their faces are very close indeed, clears his throat. 

“It will pass,” he states, half-asleep, perhaps a little too dismissively.

“Without loss?” Geralt pauses, unsure of whether to offer Jaskier the hard truth, or something softer. 

But it’s not in Geralt’s nature to sugar-coat. “No.”

Jaskier sighs. Perhaps the hard truth wasn’t what he was looking for. 

“Nothing will happen to you Jaskier. You’ll be fine.” Geralt is more alert, tone more decisive.

“How can you be sure? People don't hire bards when they’re dead, you know!” Geralt lets out a chuckle at Jaskier’s priorities, and can just see him frown in the moonlight. He can’t bring himself to apologise, so Jaskier’s offence continues. 

“I just don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m scared, Geralt. Something I’m sure you know nothing about.”

There’s a long silence, where Jaskier wonders if Geralt has fallen asleep. 

“I will admit, I often forget you have not seen everything I have seen. You are only human,” Geralt finally says. 

“Is that an apology?” Geralt can’t tell if Jaskier is impressed or not. Through the dim light, he sees the flash of white as Jaskier smiles. “I accept.” 

Geralt chuckles again. Both of them are glad for the darkness to hide their blushing cheeks. 

“You’ll be fine,” Geralt adds. “You’ll be the one telling this tale.”

It’s a touching sentiment, one that is diminished by the distracting movement Geralt feels from Jaskier’s side of the bed. 

“Are you… shivering?”

“It’s cold, like you said, I’m only human!” 

“Come here.” Geralt opens his arms and pulls Jaskier towards him, who is stunned into silence. 

“You’ll freeze to death,” Geralt mutters, as if that wholly justifies his insistence on cuddling Jaskier, who is leaning into the new sensation. 

Jaskier stays silent, until he’s mostly sure that Geralt is asleep, and murmurs a soft and earnest, “Thank you, Geralt.”

Beside him, eyes still closed, the corners of Geralt’s mouth turn upwards. 

-

Geralt and Jaskier are contentedly enjoying being in each other’s arms when there is a loud knock at the door. 

Both of them startle awake. Geralt is first to shoot upright and stumble to the door, where is he met by the innkeeper.

“Mr Rivia-” He pauses, noticing the bard with bedhead in Geralt’s sheets. Geralt closes the door a little more to block his view. 

“Yes?”

“The, uh, quarantine. It’s over.” Jaskier makes a loud thud as he falls off the bed in his haste to put on pants and reach the door. When he finally does, all of his buttons are undone. 

“Over?” If Geralt didn’t know better, he would say Jaskier sounded disappointed. 

“Yeah, a healer in the town over found a cure.” The innkeeper takes his leave, still somewhat confused. 

Jaskier and Geralt turn to each other stiffly. 

“Back on the road, then?” Jaskier asks, overly jolly. 

“Yes.” They’re both looking at the floor. Geralt feels like what he imagines the blushing young lovers feel like in Jaskier’s ballads. Embarrassed.

“You could… come.” Geralt pushes himself to finish the sentence. Their eyes meet. 

“I’d love nothing more,” Jaskier replies with a grin. Geralt doesn’t know why he expected anything less. 

On the way out of town, Jaskier sings his new ballad while Geralt walks Roach. Several people throw coin from the street and from windows above, their smiles wide in relief at the collective break in tension.

Geralt returns Jaskier’s elated smile. “Told you.”


End file.
